


Fate/Malice Alternate

by MaliceAlternate



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliceAlternate/pseuds/MaliceAlternate
Summary: In 1984, ahead of almost any predictions, the Fourth Holy Grail War is slated to begin.  Seven Masters summon their Servants and begin the struggle towards fulfilling their deepest desire.  Some want its magic for glory, some for power, and others will learn what their heart craves most with each battle.Fate/Malice Alternate is not a take on any established Fate media, but an original piece set in the Nasuverse.  The journey each character undertakes will be their own.  I hope anyone reading will enjoy their tales and their struggles to claim a final victory.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

The morning of the ritual was unusually cold, something Irmgard felt carried a bad omen about it. The entire situation had been unpleasant in every manner truthfully. How could it not be? The Einzbern family had been in a state of confusion and alarm several weeks before this day, treating her less as a person and more as a tool that needed preparation. Her progenitors mentioned that she wasn’t ready, that they shouldn’t place such an important task on her without a retainer or bodyguard. In the end, these conversations always ended the same. “She will have to do.”

Irmgard herself did what she could to withhold any sense of apprehension about what was being asked of her. A homunculus of the Einzbern family, she was viewed as something of a daughter by the older German man serving as patriarch. That many servants of the house were like her didn’t go unnoticed of course. What separated these girls and women from her? What had deemed her such a success as to be viewed favorably enough to be granted a life within these cloistered walls?

A bitter April wind rushed about Irmgard’s body, chilling her through the light cotton blouse she wore and sending the budding flowers around her bending to its whim. Green stretched out in sloping fields before her, winter’s last snows melted with time. She stood out now more than ever. In winter her pale, alabaster skin and silvery white hair made her feel like she was part of the world. Like she could melt into the drifts of cold ice and be at peace, away from expectation and demand. And when spring came, with the thaw her body would be left behind and feed the flowers and earth beneath.

The homunculus had been what would dubiously be called “alive” for 17 years now. Due to the way she was created she had a sharp and clear memory of all of them. It granted her a maturity slightly ahead of her peers, or so she was told. In truth she had her doubts. Perhaps her advanced maturity was a product of how she was raised, her eventual fate planned out in fine details, almost day by day. The study of magecraft, history lessons, fencing, all of it for a singular defined purpose.

She was meant to fight. She was made to win.

Perhaps that was what made her creator view her in such a familial manner. He had invested so much time into her upbringing, so many resources to ensure her success. Was this what all humans found in their lives? The expectations of parents, like investors in a business? The drive to return on the capital that was used to raise them? She wanted to hate it, so desperately craved to resent this expectation. In the end, she was left with only her regrets that the emotion she felt most of all was acceptance.

One hand smoothed out the black skirt she wore, feeling the hem flutter about her ankles as the wind blew once again. The chill had not stopped, even with the sun rising higher in the blue, cloudless sky. She turned and walked back towards the castle she called home. At the door she could already see another homunculus, dressed in the immaculate style of an old hospital nurse, hair tucked away and leaving only the face exposed. A face Irmgard knew only too well as an imperfect simulacrum of her own. At times the uncanny nature of it comforted her, but today it only reminded her of the purpose she had been shouldered with.

“Good morning, Lady Irmgard,” the attendant greeted her, head bowing in reverence. Irmgard returned the gesture before a hand flew to her head. The black beret she had adorned herself with nearly flew off in the latest, strongest gust yet. Her attendant didn’t react, hollow red eyes like a doll registering nothing beyond the woman in front of her.

Irmgard never liked the red eyes of her “sisters”. She had always remarked how fortunate she felt to have the bright and shining silver color that she did. Now it seemed a silly thing to feel such distaste for. If her eyes were red, perhaps she would not be stuck in this horrible predicament. This expectation of success and victory at any cost.

The grand, sprawling expanse of the castle’s entry hall opened before Irmgard as she stepped inside. The ceiling stretched above her by as much as thirty or forty feet at its highest, and the cold stone of its walls held tightly together with the continual labor and maintenance of other homunculi and the subtle magecraft woven as a protective barrier against those who would wish the Einzbern’s harm. The wooden floor was immaculate, a red plush carpet laid out leading to a staircase that would bring her into the main body of the castle itself. At the top of those stairs she could already see an aged man talking with strangers. Representatives of the Mage’s Association no doubt, perhaps the church if the collar on one man suggested anything. It truly was coming to pass.

The paintings lining the walls of the entry stared at Irmgard as she walked with as much confidence and poise as her body could muster. It was a struggle to remain upright it felt, hands clutched in front of her as she walked to the stairs and ignored the dazzling morning light of the sun through ancient stained glass on either side of her.

By the time she had arrived at the foot of the stairs, the wizened form of her father had ceased his conversation, hands behind his back as he considered her almost appraisingly. There was a sharp biting sense of fear. So close, yet so far…what if she was judged unprepared? What if they told her father that this would-be Master was not acceptable, if the years of work were for naught and he must find another representative? The sense of disappointment might well and truly crush her into the floor then and there.

“Irmgard von Einzbern, you have been chosen as a representative in this fourth Holy Grail War,” the man in the priest’s collar began to speak. He was in his fifties, if one had to guess, hair salt and pepper gray among a field of dark black. The man to his side, dressed ostentatiously in a gold trimmed jacket, a silk button down and slacks, listened with a hint of a smile about his face. Blonde hair fell loosely around his face, and as he stared down at Irmgard she realized the first man had not stopped talking.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She spoke up with a start, eyes fluttering and looking around as if for an avenue of escape. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she took a breath and composed herself as best she could. “I’m well aware of the dangers and expectations of the position of Master.” Her voice was soft and somewhat cold. Detached as best she could managed in an attempt at maturity. “That is to say…this War was a sudden affair, and I feel we would be best served with completing preparations as quickly as possible.”

The priest had stopped mid-sentence and stared down at Irmgard as she spoke. Casting a glance to the side at his companion, the two seemed to communicate wordlessly. The blonde man smiled wider, splitting his pale face with something akin to a cut across paper.

“Of course, Lady Einzbern.” He gave a sweeping bow that did little to hide his intent. He was mocking her, putting on airs of pretense. Her creator shut his eyes silently, a motion Irmgard had learned long ago expressed a disappointment in his daughter that was deeper than any wound a blade could inflict. “We trust you have procured a catalyst for your ritual? An ideal Servant in mind already, perhaps?” The blonde man stood up straight and touched a finger to his chin, as if thinking.

Irmgard puffed out her chest as best she could and clasped her hands tighter. Into fists that threatened to bite her palms with the sharpness of her nails. 

“We-…I have!” Her determination led her voice to rise higher for a moment, before she nearly deflated. This was all her father’s doing in truth. She hadn’t the beginnings of an idea on a strategy for the war, only following his words unfailingly. Now she was forced to step into the act of a capable Master and magician. “The Einzbern family intends to summon the Berserker-class Servant for this Grail War.”

“My, but we are grasping, aren’t we?” The blonde mage remarked, placing his hands on his hips. The smug satisfaction in his voice made it easy to hate him, to wish he would leave already. “Very well. We assume the laboratory is ready then?” He glanced sidelong to the Einzbern patriarch.

“It is prepared, as all matters of the Einzbern family are: meticulously and without question.” The old man tugged his lengthy beard. Dressed in fine robes and carrying a wooden cane, he was the very image of a wizard in the stylings of Merlin himself. Even the mage seemed to respect him, as the condescending attitude wavered and deferred at last to the church representative. The group of four retreated into the body of the castle, down winding stone stairs to one of many magical workshops that were used by Einzberns long dead and gone. As they walked, the elder Einzbern continued to speak.

“The Einzbern family thrice has failed to acquire the Grail. Three times we have tasted bitter failure and were it not for fortune being squarely on our side we might have lost the Grail entirely to the hands of a mad despot or eternal destruction.” The story of the Third Holy Grail War was not unknown to Irmgard. The Einzbern Servant that had been summoned was a farce, powerless and killed early in the proceedings. Only a seeming divine intervention happened to end with the Grail unharmed and simply unable to be claimed by the remaining contestants. “For that purpose, we are prepared to summon as strong a Servant as we are capable of. Whatever the cost of this War, we will see it to victory.”

The words chilled Irmgard to the core. “Whatever the cost” he had said, and she knew just what he meant. Even should she herself perish, they intended victory. That was her lot in life.

Arriving in the workshop, the four were greeted by the sight of two homunculi, standing in attendance of the circle to ensure it was complete and ready. In its center sat a shroud, discolored with centuries of age and what seemed to be flecks of dried crimson blood. The two women nodded their heads to the assembled group, and quietly left them to their business.

Irmgard stepped to the outside of the circle and held a hand over it. She felt three sets of eyes on her, and the nervousness nearly made her want to vomit. Another breath and she held it firm this time. She focused her mana into the task at hand, charging every line within that circle. The energy crackled to life throughout the floor, burning that design into stonework that had existed for almost a thousand years. The damage was superficial. She wouldn’t stop until she had succeeded. More power poured into the design, charging through not just the circle but the shroud that had been placed within it.

“Lady Einzbern-“ the father started to remark, perhaps out of concern or simple uncertainty. His word were drowned out by the thrumming in Irmgard’s own ears as something seemed to speak from beyond a realm of speech into her mind.

“Lady Irmgard von Einzbern. Would you call yourself my Master?” It was somehow everything and nothing within her mind. She couldn’t discern what sort of voice it was. Hard as steel? Sweet as honey? It weaved those lines in a beautiful paradox that threatened to tear Irmgard’s world apart. “I say again, Irmgard. Would you presume to be my Master?”

“I am!” Irmgard shouted above the din of her own thoughts. She shouted it so loud her voice cracked, and clenched her hand over that circle of brilliant red light. Her nails pricked her skin, blood seeping from the cracks between her tightly held fingers. “I am Irmgard von Einzbern, and for this War I shall be your Master!” As she spoke, the blood in her hand dropped to the ground. As if a thunderbolt had clapped beside them all, a wave of force erupted. It left a ringing sound in the ears and threatened to bowl over all but the old man, who seemed rooted to the very floor of the castle itself.

As the other three got their wits about them, they turned their eyes to the still smoking runes that had been drawn into the ground, and the figure that now stood within it. Draped in a floor length white dress was a woman, a few inches taller than Irmgard herself. Her hair was dark and long, cascading down her back. A mature face, unmarked by the lines of age, held a serenity about it, only making the striking detail of her eyes easier to observe.

This woman’s left eye was cloudy and sightless. It seemed unable to focus, but it didn’t mask the intensity behind it. Her other eye was pure and vivid, and it was with a slow dawning that Irmgard realized it was as red as ruby. The same hue that all the homunculi of the castle had. A hue that seized her in a moment and stole her words away.

“My Master,” spoke the dark-haired woman in a deep, soothing tone. Irmgard felt her face warming and reached up to touch her own cheeks, as if confirming what she felt. As she did, a warmth in her left hand caught her attention. Turning her palm down and glancing at the back, she saw an intricate pattern of red light playing across her skin. The design created a stylized pair of half-moons, something resembling a blade between them. Irmgard knew their purpose almost instinctively. For the purpose of inspiring a Servant’s loyalty, three Command seals were granted to each Master. Three orders that were guaranteed to be followed to the letter, even if such commands would cost the Servant their very life.

Irmgard was snapped from her thoughts by the harsh laugh of the mage behind her. The newly summoned Servant was too, her red eye seeming to fixate on him. The pupil in the center of that sea of red shrank as the blonde man’s laugh petered out and echoed on the stone walls of the workshop.

“This is mighty Berserker?” He asked it as if he was unwilling to accept what he had seen with his own eyes. “She’s summoned with no armor, no beasts, not even a head taller than her Master? I didn’t think I could understand how the Einzbern family failed three times before.” The mage sighed and turned his gaze to Irmgard’s creator, eyes narrowed angrily. “I believe I have an idea now, if this was sincerely the best you could come up with.”

The Berserker gave a harsh, animalistic growl quite suddenly, lurching forward one step towards the mage. Irmgard jumped with the suddenness of the motion, pushed aside by Berserker. “Einzbern, control your servant!” His voice heightened quickly, gaining in volume as he extended one hand, palm out. A harsh crackling of ice splitting began to fill the room, the blonde mage weaving some form of defense for himself. A means to prevent Berserker’s advance.

“Berserker! As your Master, please stop!” Irmgard shouted, but her words seemed to hardly reach her Servant. The woman’s eye had narrowed, teeth grit in a rage that consumed reason. Her gaze had not left the mage since he spoke. She stepped forward again.

“Use a Command Seal, you amateur!” The blonde mage was creating what seemed to be a spear or arrow of ice, something he steadied as he took a step back from the advancing Servant. The priest and Irmgard’s creator both had begun to retreat, the Einzbern patriarch calling for his servants to come and offer some level of protection to himself and his guests. The blonde mage was grimacing, watching Berserker advance. “Use a Command Seal before I have to defend myself! She doesn’t even have a weapon!”

As if to disprove his threat, Berserker ducked low and lunged at him. A sound like an animal roaring ripped from her throat as she grabbed his throat in both her hands. A strangled cry managed to escape his mouth before all access was cut off. He could neither scream nor even breathe as he hung suspended in her grasp, legs kicking at her midsection seeking release.

Irmgard’s blood had run cold. It was as if she was the one being strangled, prevented from making a single noise as her Servant held him up easily. In the silence of the moment there was a sound like a spike pounding into soft, wet earth.

The mage’s ice weapon had pierced Berserker’s shoulder. His face red and panicked, he watched the attack rush through her without any resistance of armor, magical or otherwise. When the spear was pulled back, his eyes bulged wider in their sockets. The attack had done nothing. Less than nothing, for all that it mattered.

With a snapping sound, something seemed to leave the mage’s body. Wide eyes stared at the last thing he saw in his life, the oddly quiet fury of a Berserker’s one eye, and arms and legs hung limply in the air. The priest and Lord Einzbern made a hasty retreat as a handful of homunculi rushed past them to restrain Berserker.

Irmgard took one look at the mage’s lifeless body, exhaled the breath she had been holding, and fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

Reeve Bardman was a man of distinct and expensive tastes. His years working in Wall Street had been lucrative to a degree that many people joked about his fortune being the result of a deal with the devil. Some even suspected there to be some level of dirty dealing or otherwise illicit tactics to his fortune building. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

Being a mage, Reeve had subtle ways to influence his dealings. Chief among them, his abilities to divine knowledge and perceive the flows of fate. The secrecy of magecraft made this as easy as walking a blind man into traffic in his eyes. His dealings were looked down upon by other magus’ but the American didn’t have a particularly vested interest in prestige with those who favored dusty old tomes.

At least he didn’t originally, until he had received a letter in his box from England. According to the letter, a representative was coming to America to speak with him. A punctual date and time were demanded, a location suggested, and a curt request not to bother replying as they were already disembarking a plane by now. Reeve sipped his cup of coffee as he stood by the sliding glass door of his penthouse. Looking out at the city was something of a fascination to him, and he took solace in knowing that at least he was higher up than most.

Bardman was freshly turned twenty-eight, with a clean-shaven face and bright green eyes. A pair of ovoid lenses perched on his nose gave him a bookish quality, and his dark hair was cut short, save some bangs at the front. If it wasn’t for the thin, intimidating smile some might be forgiven for assuming him a friendly man.

Pulling a cigarette from a pack he left on a small table, Reeve tucked it between thin lips and lit the tip. The trail of a wisp of smoke floated up to the ceiling as he let it burn. He was meant to be heading into work soon, but the letter had him thinking. Heading for his telephone, the mage dialed the direct number to his secretary’s desk, explaining with a minimum of detail that he felt under the weather, and would be staying home. She was to take his messages and ensure he could call them back first thing when he returned.

Reeve sincerely doubted that would be for a while.

Despite his alienation from the Mage’s Association, Reeve had managed to stay somewhat in the know about certain goings on. An acquaintance in the know told him rumors, and his own star charts and divinations helped fill in the rest. Something unexpected was happening in mage society within the last several weeks. Unexpected enough that the three major families, the Einzberns, Tohsakas, and Matous, were all in some state of disarray about it. Last he had heard, the Einzbern family had even managed to land themselves in some hot water through an incident. Reeve’s contact had no idea just what it was that had happened. Only that the church was also involved.

Rumor was a loathsome thing, but it often held a speck of truth to it, Reeve found. Perhaps the person coming from the Mage’s Association would be able to shed some light on that with enough gentle plying.

Despite calling out from work, Reeve didn’t dress particularly differently. White cotton shirt, black tie, jacket, and slacks, and a pair of Italian leather shoes. It gave his thin frame something of a mysterious, anonymous quality he thought. He blended in perfectly with so many other young men out there. Another means of hiding his trickery from prying eyes.

Reeve looked at the letter again and finished the last of his coffee, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. The Mage’s weren’t prone to acts of drama, as it was hard to disguise. Likely he would meet whoever this representative was, at whatever café they had suggested, and they would chat like civilized people about whatever it was civilized people chat about.

Placing his mug in the sink, Reeve tucked the letter into his ashtray and quietly held the lit tip of his cigarette to a corner. The paper started to burn down quickly, eliminating any trace of existence save a handful of ash in the bottom of the glass bowl.

Reeve didn’t waste time heading out the door and to the suggested café. He was a punctual sort, one who valued his time greatly. Time had a way of slipping out of your grasp if you didn’t consider it closely. Best to make the optimal use of it, which was why Reeve poured so much effort into his divination studies during the brief period he had learned among other mages. The scant years he had studied at the Clock Tower were precious to him, because they had enabled what he did currently.

If Reeve was being truthful, it was probably his own fault he had been expelled as he was. While a mage using their gifts to secure power or prestige or wealth was not unusual in and of itself, Reeve was not satisfied with the idea of a comfortable living and his name being well known to mages. Reeve wanted to be a man known to the world. He wanted power and recognition on a scale that would rival any great leader or self-made billionaire. To that end, he had made several enemies out of fellow students and teachers, and the bad blood eventually caught up with him. Quickly as they could manage, the Association forced Reeve out of its halls. While Reeve was barred from utilizing their resources any further to learn, he was at least allowed to continue practicing within the confines of their rules.

Those rules, restrictive though they were, did give him a degree of what he wanted. As he sat in the back of a taxi, staring out the window at other cars and people, that desire only seemed to grow greater in anticipation of what the contact was going to say.

When he arrived and paid for the cab, Reeve could already tell who was there to meet him. Despite the inherent desire to remain unknown to the rest of the world, mages seemed to revel in making themselves easy to spot at times. Among the drab business suits and neutral colored dresses, Reeve could spot a black woman in a dark purple dress with a black jacket lined with red silk. She stood out terribly, sipping her coffee and eating a muffin from a little plate at the table by the window.

Reeve headed in and sat in the chair opposite her. His eyes watched her calmly eating, noticing a further streak of purple in her braided hair that showed only when catching in the sun. She was the very image of some Gothic character out of a pulp novel or horror movie.

“You people do a shitty job blending in,” he told her, fishing out another cigarette from his jacket pocket. The woman in front of him didn’t acknowledge Reeve’s hushed voice, nor his harsh tone. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and folded her hands on the table in front of her.

“Apologies. I didn’t know Reeve Bardman suddenly gave a damn.” The woman’s accent was American, and her voice was smooth and even. A voice that was used to dealing with bad situations. “My name is Salem. The Mage’s Association requested I come to inform you of an unexpected development.” The cigarette in Reeve’s mouth drooped slightly and he rolled his eyes behind his glasses.

“This must be important if you have to come talk to me in person.” Reeve turned his gaze to the plexiglass display of donuts and breads at the back of the store.

“It is. The Holy Grail War is early.”

Reeve’s attention snapped back to Salem. She smiled at him placidly.

“What do you mean? How can this be early?” He leaned closer to her, but already he knew that he was hooked. Why would they inform him of something like that, unless it was directly involving him?

“We have reason to believe that you might be a candidate.” Salem pulled her hands back and reached down for an inner pocket of her jacket. She withdrew a small photograph, placing it on the table and sliding it across. “A representative of the church came to speak with a few mages recently. Nothing serious, but he was inquiring about any leads one might have to find you.”

Reeve’s head was swimming. Hiding it as best he could, he picked up the photo between two fingers and held it up appraisingly. The photo was of an older priest, his back to the camera and hiding the face. The salt and pepper color of his hair was prominent. “This man had gone to Germany recently with a mage. He returned alone.”

“And that suddenly means the Holy Grail War is early?”

“No. The fact that there were reports they had gone to the Einzbern estate is a little more promising.”

Reeve flicked the photo back to Salem. Puffing at his cigarette, one foot tapped on the floor. “The church asking around for you is worrisome enough already. You can’t hide half as well as you think you do.”

“I don’t need a fucking lesson in stealth.”

“I never implied you did.” Salem leaned forward, her eyes locked on Reeve’s. “What you need, Reeve Bardman…is a plan and a Servant.”


	3. Chapter 3

The sounds of Fuyuki City throbbed in Gen’s ears. School was starting, and even being out of high school for the few years he had been, Gen felt a sense of unease with the season. It was easy to assume this was just a learned behavior. Some metaphorical “muscle memory” that made him want to crawl into an alley, smoke, and have a beer. Which was precisely what he intended to do.

Gen Tohsaka was the heir apparent to the Tohsaka family line of magecraft, and the substantial fortune that was tied to it. You wouldn’t know that looking at him. Where his family dressed in fine, brilliant red suits and scarlet dresses, Gen dressed in a weather worn leather jacket. Beneath that he had a red t-shirt, perfectly plain, and a pair of black pants tucked into some boots.

His face was a perpetual expression of apathy, ice blue eyes hidden behind a half-closed stare of disaffected youth. That had been the norm since he was fifteen. Ten years on and it had not yet stopped. In fact, the only difference between his younger self and older self, outside a few centimeters of height, was that his hair had grown longer down the back of his neck.

The sound of teenagers laughing and joking on their way to school, the thrum of engines in the street, and the smell of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes marked Fuyuki, classified it as modern a Japanese City as you could get. Gen grabbed a cigarette from his jacket and slipped it between his lips.

As he reached for his lighter, he felt a smaller, lighter figure collide with his suddenly stopped form. The cigarette popped out and hit the ground silently, only to be crushed flat by a passing businessman. Gen sighed and turned himself to look at the young man who had knocked it loose.

“I-I’m sorry, sir!” The young man had quickly bowed his head in contrition for the contact. He was dressed in the familiar mustard yellow color of the high school. Gen recognized it immediately, before he even connected who it was that had collided with him.

“Stow the ‘sir’ shit, Matou.” Gen’s tone was sour as a man who’d sucked on a lemon. The young man who had hit him seemed likewise unenthused now, back straightening and hands clutching the embroidered back he was holding tightly.

“I wouldn’t have wasted it if I knew it was you, Tohsaka.” The air between them seemed almost oppressive in the moment of silence before either spoke again. Gen didn’t know Ichirou Matou on a deep personal level, but he knew the Matou family and its reputation. More than that, he hated that reputation for what pressure it put him under. The Tohsaka and Matou family were two of the strongest in the world, the Einzberns the only other rivals to their power. The three families were a constant in certain matters. One that loomed over Gen’s head in particular was the Holy Grail War.

“Don’t act so tough, Matou.” Gen balled his hand into a fist and tilted his head to one side slightly. “Your grandfather isn’t around to save your ass, so why don’t you keep on walking?”

“Thug.” Ichirou said that as if it was indisputable fact. In a sense it kind of was. While Ichirou had dyed the front of his cobalt blue hair a platinum blonde, he was far and away a more even tempered and respected student than Gen had ever been. Ichirou attended clubs in archery and chess, and while not excelling in either it was still two more official clubs than Gen had ever been involved with. “I’ll enjoy making a fool of you in a few weeks.”

“What are you talking about?” Gen arched a brow as Ichirou said that. “What, is someone coming down from the Mages Association to give you a bullshit title or something?” The Matou family were hung up on their pride, almost to a crippling degree. A large portion of it was Ichirou’s grandfather, a man who held a firm grasp on his family’s reputation despite his advancing age. It wasn’t as if Gen’s father wasn’t concerned with the Tohsaka family image, but Ichirou’s grandfather took it to an obsessive, almost fetishized degree.

“I’m talking about the Holy Grail War.” Ichirou smirked. It was obvious to him that Gen had no idea this was happening, and for the first time since they had started speaking Gen’s eyes widened to take in the truth of that statement.

“That’s not for another ten years, Matou.”

“Poor Tohsaka, already tragically delayed.” Ichirou brushed a lock of dyed blond hair out of his face. He looked smug and self-assured, an expression Gen wanted to punch. “My grandfather already procured a catalyst so I can summon a first class Servant.”

Gen only vaguely understood what Ichirou was getting at. The sort of half known facts that came from years of only half listening to his father’s lessons. The War was over the wish fulfillment of the Holy Grail itself, and the Servants fought the battles on their Master’s behalf. A catalyst was not necessary, but it was helpful. Catalysts could determine the specificity of a Servant that was called forth. If the Matou family already had something in mind, that was a bad sign.

More than that, Gen realized now that the ten years of relative peace he had expected were suddenly evaporating before his eyes.

“Matou, if you have to rely on your old man to do everything for you-“  
“As if you’re any better, Tohsaka.” Ichirou narrowed his eyes at Gen. “You have all your family’s wealth and resources at your disposal, but you just waste your time acting like some punk.”

Gen looked sidelong down the street, refusing to acknowledge Ichirou for a moment. When he looked back at him, the student was already turning to start walking once more. “I’ve wasted enough time on your ignorance, Tohsaka. I’ll be late for class if I keep standing around here. Next time I see you I’ll be ready to fight.” With that, Ichirou swiftly began to walk again on his way to school. Pulling another cigarette from his jacket, Gen lit the tip with a pinch of his fingers.

“Smug bastard,” he sighed, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “Okay…guess I gotta make a game plan.”


	4. Chapter 4

The summoning circle glowed and crackled with a brilliant red light. Richard Kaine, bent on one knee and hands pressed firmly to the ground, watched with awe as the ritual he had found seemed to work perfectly. The man was thirty one, having spent a lot of time and money to make it here to Germany. Even West Germany was tense, and difficult to get into in recent months. Something had caused a bit of a scare apparently, and it almost seemed likely he would have to cancel the trip. As luck would have it, his trip was okayed by the German government. 

It was just meant to be a short vacation, touring some historic castles and vistas. After years of a day-to-day work life, he had saved up a nice amount to finance said trip, and a two-week request to his work was approved ages ago. This was it. Time to do something exciting, something…unexpected.

Unexpected was meant to be exploring an ancient cloister and dilapidated school of philosophers and alchemists. Something Richard succeeded in breaking away from the small tour group to accomplish. He had been poking around in a side room like some archaeologist in a Hollywood movie. Sure, he was dressed in a cheap t-shirt from his hotel’s gift shop, as well as some shorts and sneakers per suggestion from the friendly German tour guide in their thick accent. That didn’t mean he felt any less dashing or roguish as he pressed his palms to ancient, centuries old stonework and spread his fingers in quiet mimicry of the grizzled historian searching for traps.

He didn’t locate traps, but as his hand slid over a roped off wooden door, the harsh creak of its old hinges made him jump. The movie he had been reenacting in his head was shifting gears now, from exciting adventure to a blood-chilling horror cliché.

Then why didn’t Richard heed his own advice and stay out of the door?

Growing up in Surrey, Richard absolutely was the last to dash into any sort of danger. Even something as innocent and mundane as climbing a tree in spring with friends was a cause for him to pause and consider his options. That was just how he was. A young lad with bronze colored hair, freckles, and a cautious side that bordered on obsessive.

Apparently, that meant less than nothing now as he climbed through the crack in the door inviting him down into darkness. He could feel a string to his right, weaving down the wall in a downward slope. Lights he guessed, but no switch to turn them on. Reaching into his pocket, Richard fished out a small battery-operated flashlight and clicked it on. The dull beam of yellowed light flew from the head and down a set of stone steps rife with dust, crumbling mortar work, and rat droppings.

“This is insane, Richard,” he muttered to himself. The sound seemed to get swallowed by the darkness further down, not even bouncing off the walls in a comforting echo. It felt like walking down to the pit of some yawning beast.

All the same, his feet shuffled forward with a crunch of debris underneath his rubber soled shoes. He was sure he could hear things scurrying in those walls, across the ceiling and shaking loose bits of stone that dropped into his head. Paranoia gripped him, and more than once he nearly dropped his light thinking he felt a spider darting across his exposed neck. Something urged him onward though, some morbid curiosity that refused to be quelled with anything less than a complete understanding of what waited to greet him down below.

The staircase took him down what he guessed was a couple dozen feet underground to a small alcove and another shut door. The plain brown wood and wrought iron pull ring still seemed somehow fresh. It was then he felt a cold chill on his skin, goosebumps along his arms making it stand out how dry it seemed here.

Richard’s free hand reached out, shaking softly as he pulled on the ring and felt the door creak open towards him. Without a word, he slipped inside and scarcely noticed the door shutting behind him.

That had been a few minutes ago, but it felt like an eternity. A lifetime ago, when he was a different person. Exploring what seemed to be an ancient study, Richard had found a yellowed tome, open on a table to a diagram that had been long ago drawn onto the floor and seemingly burnt into it. It talked about calling forth demons, about knowledge and power and like a man possessed Richard groped around through the room with his dim flashlight to find something to redraw it with.

Luck sided with Richard again, as one of the historians likely maintaining and studying the area had left what looked like a red marker tucked into a book of notes they had been keeping. It wasn’t fancy, nor did it manage to draw half as well as Richard might have wanted, but it got the job done. German wasn’t Richard’s chosen language either, having studied Latin in high school, but he managed what he assumed was a passing pronunciation for whatever words were in that tome.

Richard had debated cutting his palm as he chanted. Wasn’t that something wizards and warlocks did? He couldn’t recall a time kindly old Merlin sliced his thumb for a spell, but a lot of movies talked about it. In the end he couldn’t get over the idea of trying to bite his thumb, and nothing else here seemed sanitary enough.

That had all been moot in the end, as the circle glowed bright enough to illuminate the room, blowing about the notes and pens sitting about. By the time it finished, and Richard’s eyes were plunged into darkness once more, he could see a brief glimpse of a man close to his own age. Draped in dark crimson and black robes, his auburn hair was tied in a long ponytail behind him. An equally long beard hung from his chin, a sharp jaw trailing off from it. He seemed severe and learned, dark brown eyes glittering like gems behind a diminutive pair of pince-nez on his nose.

“D-Devil,” Richard stuttered out. It was the only thing he could think to mention, crouched there on the floor as if knelt in reverence. Realizing the folly of that pose, he pushed himself to his feet and wiped his knees of the stray dust that had gathered.

“I’m afraid despite reputation, I’m not quite that.” The voice was surprisingly deep. As the man spoke, he smiled reassuringly, eyes shutting for a second before he reached out a placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Please, relax. I mean no harm, and I serve no devils. I am _your_ Servant.”

“Servant?” The word did little to satisfy neither Richard’s nerves nor his curiosity. “If you’re no devil, what are you doing popping out of magic circles?”

“I am no devil, but I am most certainly not a man either.” The man release Richard’s shoulder and turned to the table. Snatching up the tome that had been left there, he seemed pleased by its presence and tucked it into a spot within his robes that rattled with the sound of delicate glass. “I am a Caster-class Servant. Ah, but you are likely unaware what that means.”

“You’re not…entirely wrong.” Richard tried not to sound too overwhelmed by this all. Tried to put on a brave and confident front. It seemed difficult to do when his legs were replaced by rubber.

There was a sound of rushing footsteps echoing out from the doorway, from the stone steps Richard had crept down moments before. “Oh Hell, this isn’t good,” he muttered, one hand going to the back of his head. Here he was, somewhere he was not intended to be. If he wasn’t detained forever by German officials, let alone sued into fiscal oblivion this would almost be funny.

“Ah, I take it my study is off-limits to most is it?”

“Your study?” Richard wiped his face. “Not important. Yes, we’re somewhere off-limits, with no way out.”

“Bah, a trifle to deal with, Master.” The robed man- Caster had he called himself?- stepped swiftly behind Richard and grasped him by the shoulder again. “Consider this a demonstration of my abilities. Please try not to move too much.”

Before Richard could say anything, let alone turn to stare incredulously at Caster, he felt something seem to lift him off the ground. His ears popped with a sudden change of pressure, and in a blink he found himself standing atop a green hill overlooking the clear blue waters of the Rhine.


	5. Chapter 5

Kaiser looked down at the limp figure of a clean suited businessman, face down on the ground. It was growing late in Fuyuki, the manmade lights drowning out any scrap of darkness. Living underneath those manmade lights you learned a few things to ensure that you could find those scraps of darkness. More than that, you learned to use them in the best way possible.

Kaiser wasn’t his real name of course. Kai Sakamichi had been born into a pretty typical middle-class family in Japan. His father worked in a factory, his mother stayed home cooking and cleaning. It was almost a charmed life really, were Kai able to muster his father’s own industrious spirit and work ethic. Instead, Kai had spent most of his life shirking any sense of responsibility at every opportunity. He cheated in school and routinely swindled kids out of pocket change in rigged games to purchase candy and manga for himself.

By the time Kai was out of school, he knew that the workforce was hardly a fit for him. Office jobs held no allure, and the factory was too physical. Despite the disappointment of his parents, or perhaps even because of it, he had left home and set about making use of his charisma and a lengthy history of trickery and deceit.

That had been what this whole event was about. Drunk office workers rarely thought straight about what they were doing, and Kai could spot one across a damn stadium. He called himself Kaiser, stating he was “King of the Road” and that the office worker was going to have a chance at winning a “King’s Treasure” from him. Hell, there was even a necklace Kai hadn’t managed to pawn yet, giving a little more allure and credence to the idea of a treasure to be won.

The pageantry was what made it so easy to get people to agree to this kind of farce. In a time where wonder seemed to be dwindling, giving people something fantastical made them eager to buy-in to what you were selling.

“So, you’re an antiquarian, sir?” Kai’s voice was high and with a quick tempo. Less time to think on a response meant more information slipped out. “I quite respect that, the past had many treasures for us, many treasures indeed.”

The businessman gave some kind of muttered agreement, a blustering nod from a red-faced buffoon. “Well then, how about this, sir? We bet for whatever is in that briefcase, in fact if you win I’ll give you back everything else I won as well as the necklace you fancied.”

Before the man could agree or disagree, Kai had thrown three dice into a small cup and slapped it down onto the folding table. There was a grunt from the businessman, Kai’s eyes peering up over the round lenses of his shades. “Even or odd?”

“Give me a moment-“ A cough that shook the man’s shoulders.

“Moments are bought and sold for more than this. Odd or even?” Kai’s blue eyes burned into the balding man’s red face.

“I’m not even-!”

“Even you said?” Kai lifted the cup and revealed the dice. Straight threes, and Kai was slowly running a hand over his green hair, tugging the messy ponytail that only served to keep the hood of his jacket from making a mess of it. “A damn shame, sir, damn shame.”

“Listen you little weasel!” The victim was shouting now, stumbling back for a moment and clutching his briefcase in a death grip. “I never agreed to those terms!”

“You didn’t?” Kai put on a thoughtful expression, as if this was news to him entirely. This wasn’t unusual, but it was a little worrisome. Kai didn’t have a lot of experience physically assaulting people. He was more acquainted with confusion, with bait-and-switch tactics that would leave the mark unsure what just happened. This drunk should have been an easy target, but here he was twice as wide as Kai and dangerously in control of his faculties. “I could have sworn you called even.”

“Don’t you try and swindle me, you cheat!” A little late for that, thought Kai as he looked side to side. He had his back to an alleyway, the businessman mostly out of it by now with his retreat. This wasn’t going to end well for him. He could already feel it.

“Sir, I can see you’re a little worked up,” Kai said as smooth and calm as he could manage. “We shouldn’t blow this out of proportion.”

The businessman gave a swing of his briefcase at Kai’s head. The strike was slow and clumsy, but still close to hitting Kai. In a moment of desperation, he grabbed for something discarded on the ground of the alleyway, an empty bottle of champagne. Lunging forward the rounded body of glass smashed into the man’s nose. A spurt of red rushed down his mouth and with a grunt the man fell forward and landed sprawled out on the ground.

That altercation had only lasted a few minutes. If you asked Kai about it, he would say it lasted a few hours. His heart was thumping, and the bottle slipped out of his fingers with a hollow clinking sound on the pavement. This was bad. Kai crouched down and stuck a hand in front of the bleeding fountain he had made of his nose. A warm puff of air hit his skin, and Kai sighed in relief.

“Least the oaf didn’t die on me.” That would be hard to explain away to police. As it was, he had no idea if anyone outside the alley had seen or heard something. It was late, around eleven in the evening, most people were home or drinking. Kai could either run or hide, not both.

Eventually he decided to try and hide and make sure the man didn’t go south. He could play it off as finding the man mugged if someone stumbled onto it. Grabbing the thick wrists of his mark, Kai grunted and pulled and strained to ensure his feet were not sticking out of the alleyway. In the end the man’s business suit was gritty and his face had smeared with blood across the lips. Might be a broken nose. At least the wheezing was a sign he was still alive.

Kai glanced at the briefcase left on the ground. It was laying flat, buckles still secure and shining with a golden tint under the evening lights. “What was so important you old fart?” Kai smirked and scurried on hands and knees to the briefcase, grabbing the handle.

The clasps were easy to unlock after Kai fished through the man’s pockets for a small ring of keys. One smaller than the others fit the locks, and popping open the carrying case, he flipped the lid.

Inside was an antique flintlock pistol, made of heavy wood and dark, time worn iron. The heft of it was unreal in Kai’s hand as he lifted it and aimed down the barrel. “People actually used these things?” Kai muttered to himself. “Feel like I’d break my wrist.”

Setting the thing back down, Kai fished through the case again. Just some letters underneath the cushioning for the pistol itself, all of it written in some sort of nonsense Kai couldn’t begin to decipher. Crumbling it up, he threw it over his shoulder. The case was now empty, and he frowned in thought.

“Might be able to sell this thing. Looks pretty expensive.” Kai was satisfied at that idea, shutting the case again as a flickering of light was lost to the neon glow around him. He wasn’t even aware of someone else besides himself and the businessman in that alley until the soft clicking of the flintlock’s firing mechanism being pulled into place reached his ears.

Turning around and wildly swinging the case at whoever was there, the corner managed to catch the pistol and send it clattering to the ground. The man who had been holding it looked back at Kai, hands darting up besides his head in a gesture of surrender. The man was European, dressed in an old fashioned three-point hat. He wore a domino mask across his eyes, seeming to mask his features in a way that wasn’t entirely logical. A large, brown overcoat was open to reveal the garb of an old 18th century folkhero. Tightly fastened bronze buttons, vest, loose fitting white shirt, all tucked into cream colored breeches, tucked into leather riding boots. The man was either a lunatic or a costumed mascot to some ridiculous club.

“Hold there, sir!” The European shouted, chuckling as he took a step back. “I mean no harm!”  
“Funny thing about holding a gun, usually means harm.”

“Ah…fair point, sir, well made!” This out-of-place man laughed and slowly lowered his arms, seeming at ease now despite Kai still brandishing the case. It wasn’t a shock that he was hardly a threat with just that to defend himself. Still, the European didn’t make a move for it or the gun. He merely scratched his stubbled chin and looked around. “Tell me, would you happen to know who called me here?”

“Nobody called you.” Kai slowly lowered the case. He didn’t trust himself to win even with that advantage. Something about this man seemed…more dangerous than most. “I was just,” he stopped and glanced at the businessman, now groaning with discomfort. “Well I was indisposed.”

“And how.” The European pushed past Kai and crouched down to inspect the businessman. Lifting a hand and dropping it, he seemed satisfied and nodded. “To think I was probably almost this sorry sod’s Servant. I must thank you, sir! Quite truthfully, from the bottom of my heart!” The man reached out a leather gloved hand for Kai’s.

Cautiously inspecting it, Kai reached to answer the gesture and stopped. On the back of his hand was a series of red markings, like a scar. The were arranged into three points, each of them a wide u-shape like a stylized horseshoe. He was so shocked by them he failed to realize this man had grabbed the pistol from the ground again and tucked it into a holster at his hip.

“Yes, I feel you’ll be a far better Master than that pampered so-an-so could ever be. You’ve no doubt got a hunger about you.”

“Sorry, you’re going to have to back up a moment here.” Kai was uncertain what to make of any of this. Some strange foreigner had shown up unannounced and started talking nonsense about Masters and Servants, dressed in bizarre old fashioned cosplay. Kai felt like he was owed at least an explanation on that regard.

The European turned to face him, a decidedly dishonest smirk on his lips. Kai ignored it and pointed at the pistol he had just tucked away in his belt. “How about you start with that gun? Why the interest in it?”

“Well, it’s my weapon for starters,” the European said as casually as if talking about a set of misplaced keys.

“Your weapon? You know that’s illegal here, right?” Kai crossed his arms and glanced to the ground as he heard a soft groan. The businessman he had clobbered was starting to rouse again. The European must have heard it too, as he turned away from Kai and once again crouched down over the portly figure.

“Oh, most certainly. I simply happen to thrive on that sort of thing. The freedom of the outlaw and all that.” The European picked up one of the businessman’s hands and covered the back. There was a feeling of unease for a moment, Kai unsure what to make of the strange gesture. When he let go of the mark’s hand, something akin to a brand seemed to show on the skin for a couple seconds before fading away. Placing it back on the ground, the European tipped his hat.

“Welcome to the Essex Gang, sir. Go forth and enjoy. As for you, Master,” he said, standing up and whistling sharply. “We should be off somewhere private if we want to continue discussing this.

Kai was about to continue with his questions then and there when he heard hooves on the asphalt. Despite wanting nothing more than to avoid further surprises, Kai turned to see a black horse, magnificent and somehow managing to have sneaked through this entire alley to appear behind him. This was hardly the strangest thing to happen so far, but it tipped the scales. Fine, if he was being conned it was a damn good one.

“Okay, private it is. I know a few spots.” The European pulled himself up into the saddle of the horse and extending a hand down he hauled Kai up behind him. “Let’s head to the waterfront. It’ll be empty enough.”

“Waterfront it is, Master. Alright, Bess,” the European urged to the horse, clicking his tongue. “Let us depart with haste.”


	6. Chapter 6

The symbols taught by her mother burned into the ground, but the chill of the north wind off the water from Hokkaido seemed to bite through the heat that had been generated by it. Michiru’s long, braided black hair had been blown back from the force of it, but she didn’t stop chanting. Not until she saw the human figure standing in the circle. A spirit maybe? Some kind of ethereal being answering her calls perhaps. Her mother had only told her that it would summon “one to help in a time of crisis”, which everything seemed to suggest was coming fast.

Michiru was twenty-one, living with her mother and father and helping them with their daily lives. Living in the woods, they typically relied on hunting and crafting as much as they could. It was a sign of the times that this was becoming less and less suitable to live on, a scarcity settling in that frightened the family of three. Now more than ever her family needed this help, they needed whatever guardian the circle had called to them.

What Michiru hadn’t expected was this guardian to be almost her size, with wild brown hair and piercing eyes that stared up at her, like a large mountain lion about to advance on prey. Nor had she expected her to be naked from the waist up.

“You….are you cold?” Michiru piped up, walking in a circle around the girl she had summoned. She was around her age if she had to guess, dark brown skin suggesting she was more used to the sun. Around her waist were fine cloth wrappings that at least covered her legs, but if the shaking in her arms said anything that was little comfort. Michiru pulled off her jacked and handed it to the wild-eyed girl.

Taking the jacket after a moment, whatever the spirit was placed it over her shoulders and seemed to relax a bit. “There, much better,” Michiru sighed, smiling gently. Her new guardian looked her over and finally nodded in return.

“You’re…not what I expected.” The spirit spoke up as her shivering frame slowed and steadied. Pulling the puffy jacket tight around herself, she looked around. “None of this is.”

“What was it you expected, spirit?” Michiru asked it calmly, her mind clear. She had to be strong in front of this being, whatever it might be.

“I suppose I was expecting someone older.” The girl finally seemed comfortable in this temperature. Michiru noticed at last that her feet were bare as the girl started to walk out of the circle and explore her surroundings. “I am your Saber-class Servant. Calling me Saber will suffice for the time being.”

Michiru nodded at the instruction. Almost as an afterthought she followed Saber and began trying to direct her back to the small cottage she called home

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Saber. I am Michiru, your, uh,” the idea of calling herself a Master didn’t quite sit well with her. Something about talking to a girl her age while mentioning it was off putting. “Well, I’ll just say Partner for now.”

“Suit yourself, Master.” Saber shrugged and glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t much care what you call yourself, so long as our aim is winning.”

Michiru stopped, planted in the ground and looking at Saber’s body still walking away. Saber didn’t seem to realize for a few more feet. She turned to face the woman she had called Master, mouth in a small frown.

“Winning?” The question was simple. Michiru hadn’t summoned help for a competition. She wanted someone who could help her family. Someone who would keep the forest full and bountiful. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Ah. I see. That explains matters.” Saber nodded and crossed her arms, staring up at the flawless blue sky above them. “My Master is an amateur.”

“Amateur?”  
“You’re remarkably good at repeating me, Master. Is that some kind of spell you perform?” Saber braced herself against a chilly wind that blew across the grass, sending rippling waves of green around their feet. “It seems obvious you don’t know what you’re a part of. I will explain matters to you as best I can.”

Saber jerked her head to the side, encouraging Michiru to continue walking. After a moment, Michiru’s feet continued to move, carrying her alongside Saber as they resumed their trek to the cottage. “You are involved in what is called a Holy Grail War. A battle for a fabled artifact and the power it possesses.”

“That is not my intention whatsoever.” Michiru shook her head as she heard that.

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice but to engage now. You are marked as a Master.” Saber gestured to one of Michiru’s hands. A set of red sigils had taken shape on the back of her palm. “You and I are partners. Through you I exist, and through me you will do battle with other pairs like us.”

“Just what are you, Saber? I thought I was summoning a guardian, a spirit of the forest or something like that.”

“You’re not entirely wrong. I am a spirit.” Saber nodded in thought. On the distance was the cottage, nestled into a line of trees that grew thick into a forest behind it heading up a small hill. “But I am no more of nature than you or anyone else. I am a Heroic Spirit, one of those countless figures whose exploits are told in legends.” 

Michiru was about to speak up, to clarify what Saber was telling her and perhaps learn what Saber’s identity might be. She stopped when Saber narrowed her eyes, clearly not done with her explanation. “We lend our strength to mortal mages that summon us in hopes that our dreams will be realized as well. In exchange, we can exist though their power.” Here Saber stopped talking and seemed to be inviting a question.

“So then…why fight over the Grail? Why not use it to help everyone?” Michiru watched Saber’s face as she stared off into the distance, as if tracking something in the cover of those trees. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to just use it for the greater good?”

“Your inability to grasp the greed of others is noble, if not a little misguided. Mages are prideful glory seekers more often than not.” Saber spat on the ground in disgust. “You’re not likely to find many who are interested in any greater good than their own.” Michiru nodded and stared at the ground for a moment. The two walked in silence to the front door, sliding it open and Michiru directing Saber to a small chest.

“You can have some of my clothes if you like. The jacket seems to fit well.” She grabbed a black sweater and pulled it on over her head. Pulling her hair through the back, she glanced at Saber who seemed to be poring through only items for the lower half of her body. “You’ll need a shirt or something.”

“Why?” Saber didn’t look up as she said it. “The jacket covers me fine, extra layers will just get in the way.”

Michiru felt her face flush red for a moment. Saber simply continued to find clothing, eventually stepping behind a small screen for privacy.

“It covers you, but not well! You can’t go everywhere with it closed up either, the temperature is going to start rising soon!” Already Michiru felt as though this was a bad idea. Maybe she could dismiss her. Tell Saber that her help wasn’t necessary, and she was abdicating her place in the competition.

It was about that time she noticed that Saber was not only pulling out clothes but placing them on a sheet. The way that her father would for long trips in the woods, or when he was returning with bundles and packs of scavenged wood and stone. “You’re packing?”

“Of course. We have to go where the others will be.” Saber stated it matter-of-factly. In a sense it was deserving of that. If Saber was sold on this battle then of course she would want to find whoever she would be fighting against.

“How do you know where to go, Saber?” Michiru started to take up packing as well. Her father and mother were out for the time being, and a pang of guilt hit her in the heart. She would want to say goodbye if she were going somewhere. Even at her age she wanted to stay close to them as it always had been.

“Servants sense other servants. Consider me a divining rod.” The concept sounded almost silly. How silly, Michiru, she thought to herself. Was it as silly as women popping out of circles in the ground? “It will be vague until we get closer, but I at least have a heading of sorts. We’ll head south.” Saber tied off the sheet of clothes and picked it up quietly. Michiru was busy with essentials still, Saber sighing and watching her quietly.

“You really aren’t aware what any of this is about, are you?” Saber asked. Michiru shook her head. “You are at least able to do spells, right? You summoned me after all.”

“I don’t know about spells, but my mother taught me to speak with the spirits.” Michiru looked up at Saber’s fierce, golden eyes. Despite her uncertainty, she smiled. “It’s what got me you.”

“You’re very fortunate you found me.” Saber smirked, walking past Michiru to the front door. “I’ll be outside. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.” With that said, Saber walked back outside and shut the door, leaving Michiru alone in her cottage. The only home she had ever known was rapidly feeling smaller and more distant by the moment. Like she had already left.

Writing a quick note, Michiru folded it and left it on the mat her parents slept on. Stealing one last glance at the small home, she rushed out the door and began to walk side-by-side with Saber down south.


	7. Chapter 7

The latest flight from Europe slowly descended into Japan just past suppertime. The time differential was going to do the priest no favors at all, but that was the price to pay for his duty. Without his interference, this entire exercise would be chaos. The church needed to maintain a presence in these proceedings, a firm hand of discipline and expectations over those who participated. If this were between only those aware of the ramifications of their actions perhaps it would be different, but there was no way to predict who would take part.

Father Kotomine had been a priest for almost forty years now, and in that time, he had learned much. The truths of the world were deeper and vaster than anything he knew growing up. Those truths were so astounding that it was better to keep them from the public eye. If they could see the machinations of reality, they would surely lose their minds and souls to it.

This led Kotomine to his calling as a shepherd. A man who tended flocks and kept them ignorant. The ignorant thanked him, they did his work of explaining the unexplained. With their willingness and even eagerness to defer to a figure of authority, they could stay blissfully unaware of the slaughterhouse they could end up in through no fault of their own.

Mages were a breed all their own. If the masses were the sheep that were sheared at large, the mages were like animals kept for a pedigree. They received their own care, their own allowances. They were made to feel special.

When it was all said and done, they were still just animals before the Lord.

Kotomine did love the world, truly he did. He loved the people in it. He simply tried to keep things as uncomplicated as possible. The incident with the mage at the Einzbern estate proved why that was necessary. Complications led to consequences.

Father Kotomine checked with baggage and retrieved his things. A rolling suitcase of spare clothes and personal effects that he hefted easily off the conveyor belt and started to take away from the terminal. The Einzbern homunculus would be arriving on the next flight, or so she had said, and he had informed the Clock Tower how to contact him if anyone should find any information on Bardman. There was no reason to waste time waiting on either of those.

In Fuyuki, there were the last two mage families to communicate with. The Tohsaka had made a cursory attempt to speak with him, but the Matou were oddly quiet. Kotomine wasn’t sure what to make of that given the pride that most second-rate magus’ seemed to carry about them.

Stepping into the glow of Fuyuki’s evening lights, the priest stroked his graying mustache and looked for a paper to pick up. Popping a coin into a dispenser, he pulled out a paper and tucked it under his arm to read when he had a chance. That done, he hailed a taxi and loaded his suitcase into the trunk before he climbed into backseat and gave the address to the Tohsaka estate.

As the taxi drove through the streets of Japan, Kotomine opened the paper and thumbed through it with a faint interest. Greed, corruption, scandal, all of it was making the rounds of late no matter where you went. It was enough to make one long for simpler times long gone. Perhaps if he was fortunate whoever won this war would be able to do something about all that.

The taxi pulled to a stop outside a high fence and gate of iron and brick. Behind it was an estate that spoke of opulence and sophistication, a tended garden and shrubs decorating a lush lawn. Spring was being kind to the city it seemed.

Kotomine stepped out and instructed the driver to take the suitcase to a small church on the outskirts. He paid his fare and extra for the task, thanking the driver and offering a prayer for him and his generosity. That placation given, Kotomine made his way through the gate and down a stone walkway to the front door.

As he knocked and waited patiently, he could hear a conversation within. Three voices it seemed, two older and one younger. The younger he recognized as Gen Tohsaka, the eldest son of the family. One of the older voices was his father, but the third…the third was a stranger to him.

When the door opened, Kotomine bowed his head humbly and stepped inside, slipping off his shoes as he did. In the threshold of the house he could see Gen, putting on his jacket and staring at his father. By his side was an older man, tall and aged close to his seventies from a cursory glance. He was resplendent in polished steel armor, a heavily twirled mustache and pointed beard on his chin. He was beside Gen almost defensively, eyes blazing as he looked between the older Tohsaka and Kotomine’s sudden presence.

“A man of the cloth! At long last, someone to talk sense to this scoundrel!” The older man spoke up suddenly. Before Kotomine could stop him, this older stranger had grabbed his hand and pulled it up in a gesture of contrition and devotion. “My Lord Gen is at his wits end with this charlatan presuming to bluster about as king of this castle.”

Kotomine had to assume this was the Tohsaka Servant summoned by Gen. That scarcely explained the devotion on display. To wit, Servants were summoned with a working knowledge of the world itself, whatever was necessary to survive and blend in with society. That should have gone for this man as well.

Why then was he acting so noticeably out of place?

“Hey Gramps,” Gen piped up finally, his eyes tired and arms swiftly finishing putting on his jacket. “Stow the holy man shit for a second and tell my old man I’m going out for a bit.”

“Gen, you know this is hardly the time for your diversions,” the older Tohsaka finally said, hand resting on the opulently cut gem of a cane.

“Why, because you wanna talk about what you wanna do with some fancy cup?” Gen asked, raising a brow as he tried to step past Kotomine. The priest pulled his hand out of the Servant’s grasp and placed it firmly on Gen’s shoulder.

“Respect your elders, Gen.” Kotomine turned a smiling expression to him, eyes shut. That friendly expression was oddly disquieting to Gen it seemed, as he shrugged his shoulder out of Kotomine’s grip and seemed to stop for the moment. “I am simply here to see that your summoning was successful. From the looks of things,” Kotomine said as he turned his head towards the knight beside him. “I see I had no reason to be concerned. A natural result for a mage like you, Gen.”

“My Master has the soul of a noble about him,” the Servant piped up quickly, a delighted smile on his face. “He has summoned me for the great honor of chivalrous combat, a quest most deserving of a knight’s attention!”

Gen rolled his eyes, the Servant quickly making a flourish and a bow to Kotomine. “My apologies, Father, I have neglected my introduction. I am The Tohsaka family’s Servant and sworn protector henceforth. Don Quixote of La Mancha, my lance ever at their service!”

This was unexpected. Servant identities usually were a closely guarded secret, to avoid knowledge of their strengths and weaknesses prior to a battle. This Servant, what Kotomine assumed was the Lancer-class, was all but giving away his name to a complete stranger on the basis of his volition.

Still, the graying haired priest returned the bow politely. As he straightened up, he could see Gen was taking the opportunity to continue walking out the door.

“I’m going out, Gramps. If my old man can’t answer your questions I’ll be surprised.” Gen was already heading up the walkway to the gate, leaving Kotomine, Lancer, and the elder Tohsaka behind.

“Follow him, Lancer.” Gen’s father pointed with the tip of his cane out the door. Lancer’s eyes narrowed, as if unwilling to listen to him before he finally nodded sharply.

“Only because my Master’s well-being is paramount.” Turning on his heel, Lancer leaned his head in close to Kotomine’s. “Watch yourself, Father. This man sees only as far as his use for others.” That said, Lancer exited after Gen. Kotomine only smiled and waved as he left.


	8. Chapter 8

The airport was still full when the last European flight of the day landed. Despite the late hour, Fuyuki truly seemed to never sleep. All those present were drinking small cups of instant coffee and tea from paper cups, walking briskly to collect bags or get a taxi. So many of them were entirely unaware how dangerous the terminal was that late April evening.

Irmgard had taken the public flight despite a risk to safety. Berserker was only held under control by a Command Seal, but every moment had been a deeply nerve-wracking experience. The Einzbern family had provided the dark-haired woman with a simple black tank and a white collared shirt over it. A long skirt finished the look of a professional woman and managed to help her blend in where the eyepatch covering her eye called out her presence. Her hair had been braided, and she looked oddly normal to Irmgard.

Normal save the white knuckled grip she had on her armrests. Even with a Command Seal preventing her disobedience, she was fighting tooth and nail it seemed. Her teeth were grit in ferocious desire to scream, to rage against anything and everything she saw.

Irmgard had learned after the event with the mage that Berserker’s name was not something taken lightly. The presence of men drove her to an insanity that threatened anyone and everyone around her. When she was alone with Irmgard or among the homunculi of the castle she was in control, even dignified.

A plane made a poor location then, and Irmgard hated every second of it as she waited for the near twelve-hour trip to finish. Something that three rows behind her Richard Kaine and Caster were also feeling strongly.

Richard’s attempt to charter a flight from Germany to Japan had been a last-minute decision as he spoke with Caster at length about the situation he now found himself in. Everything was happening so fast, his plane ticket was still for a one-way trip back to England and there was no way to refund it, or so the man at the terminal had told him. Caster though seemed content to handle the matter of the flight, and Richard found it more comforting not to question how he handled it.

Up in first class Reeve Bardman was lounging quite contentedly, sipping on a glass of scotch and staring out the window at the lights of Japan. A straight flight from America to Japan wasn’t difficult. He had been convinced by Salem, however, to drop her in England to monitor things and ensure the Clock Tower did not interfere. Despite some protest from the Servant he had summoned, Reeve had agreed to the idea.

The Servant in question was sitting across from him in one of Reeve’s snappier sets of clothing. A charcoal colored shirt and red tie, black jacket and pants, it all offered the same air of professionalism that Reeve exuded. The gray hair and beard marked him as older than Reeve, creating the illusion that he was Reeve’s superior, despite the truth that connected them. Adjusting the antiquated pair of spectacles on his nose, the Servant’s perpetual scowl and focused brow showed either intense thought, or intense displeasure.

Three Masters and their Servants made that plane ride, aware of the presence of their rivals, but unable to act on it despite all they may have wanted to. Even when the pairs disembarked, they only kept their eyes on the exit. It was dangerous to confront anyone in public, not just for the safety of civilians but also for fear of their own ability to fight back against an unknown foe.

Richard stepped out into Fuyuki first with Caster by his side, breathing in the scent of a crowded city once again. It was beyond almost anything he had experienced back home. Irmgard came up behind quickly, holding Berserker’s hand in as tight a grip as she could muster. She wasn’t sure when the Command Seal would wear off, and the best way to avoid this would be to get them both out of the city if possible and somewhere without others to endanger.

Reeve hung back with his Servant, smirking as he fished out a cigarette from his pocket. He was content to watch the two Masters and their partners standing outside the doors, disappearing as best he could into the crowd while his Servant did the same.

“This is Japan, then?” Richard asked Caster in amazement. “Hard to believe I’m getting a chance to see it.”

“You’ll see plenty, so long as you remain aware of who is watching us.” Caster turned to face Irmgard and Berserker, eyes narrowing. “I knew there was at least one pair in that plane with us. You’re not considering an attack I hope?”

“N-not at all!” Irmgard responded. Berserker’s eye darted towards the two standing a few feet away, heels digging into the asphalt beneath her like she was preparing to charge. “We should go somewhere quieter. Away from people.”

“Of course.” Richard agreed. The two women were lovely in their own distinct ways. It seemed insane that either was involved in this at all. “Do you have any ideas, Miss?”

Irmgard was about to suggest something when Berserker’s hand ripped free of hers. She threw herself into the crowd leading back into the terminal. “Shit!” Richard didn’t stop to think about what he was doing, opening the door and dashing in as well. If he and Caster could stop her, all the better before someone was hurt.

The interior of the terminal was slowly thinning out. Berserker was an easy target to locate, but she was quick. Darting through the crowd, Irmgard, Richard, and Caster followed her as best they could. They only managed to locate her when she slammed her body into an emergency exit so hard it shook the frame of it.

“Get away from there!” Irmgard shouted that, waving a hand wildly at the dark-haired woman. Berserker’s head whipped to the side to face Irmgard, her braid snapping around her shoulder. Despite the rush she had made, she wasn’t even registering the exertion it seemed, nor the impact she had made. All that she had in her sights was Irmgard, and then the two men beside her.

In a moment the Servant lunged for Richard. His eyes widened in fear, mouth opening to give a strangled cry when Berserker’s hand reached out and grabbed his throat. He was sure he was seeing his own death from outside his body.

“Stand down!” Caster’s voice rang out over the din of the airport, and something flashed from his outstretched hand. A powder of some sort hit Berserker’s face, and in a moment of contact it seemed to flash with a blinding light. Richard himself was even dazed by it, feeling only his servant’s hand grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back. He was half tossed to the floor by the force of it. The terminal was now noticing things happening, and there were cries of shock and alarm. “Madam, while we wish to remain cautious of human life, we will not hesitate to defend ourselves!”

The air was still for a moment, save the pained howling of Berserker, one hand pressed to her eye and the other lashing out with wild swipes. Caster was backing away slowly, holding his arms out to block people from approaching the flailing woman.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what she was running after!” Irmgard approached Berserker and placed a hand on her shoulder. It seemed to comfort her, but this was still a dangerous place to remain. “We have to leave. She’s not in control around people.”

“Understood.” Caster turned and began to part the crowd of onlookers as best he could manage. He told them he was a doctor, that he needed to get the woman outside. He called it “epilepsy” that she was suffering from, that she needed to get outside where they could get her to a hospital.

As Caster worked his way through the crowd, Reeve watched from behind the wall of bodies. His Servant had made a break from Berserker’s pursuit and escaped without notice, but this opportunity seemed perfect.

“Assassin, see if you can eliminate that Berserker.” Reeve murmured, hoping to avoid anyone overhearing him. There was a pause before the older man’s voice finally responded, a deep, hard voice in the back of his mind.

“This seems unwise, sir. We don’t know what abilities either of them possess, reconnaissance would be more prudent.” Assassin spoke calmly, an analytical approach to a dangerous situation. “I can follow them closely and observe.”

“I’m the Master, you remember that, correct?” Reeve sneered at no one in particular. “You can suggest all you like, but I make the final decisions.”

“This is a partnership, not employment.” Assassin’s voice grew harsher as he responded. “Treat me like a fool at your own peril, I have little to lose from your impatience.” The four were nearly to the front of the airport, the crowd still parted behind them.

“We’re partners as much as a hunting dog to his master.” Reeve clenched his fist, feeling the power of one of the red markings there surging and fading away. “Your world’s greatest criminal mind answers to me. By order of a command seal, you will take your shot at Berserker.”

There was no response to Reeve’s order. Only a moment of silence before a shot rang out in the terminal. The crowd that had been watching was panicking now, rushing around in its hurry to reach the doors after the initial burst of gunpowder. Reeve had to push his way through the crowd to even remain standing after the rash act.

Berserker had taken the shot in the back, as her eye opened in recovery of the flash Caster had generated. Irmgard screamed at the noise and the shock of the attack, wheeling around to see who had made the attack. Richard was being pushed around by the tide of people, but the sight of another person resisting the flow stood out.

“Caster!” He shouted, pointing in Reeve’s direction. “Think he’s our man?”

“One way to find out.” Caster began to advance, tracing sigils through the air in front of him. With the chaos around them, he cast a bolt of light from arm’s reach, negating the risk of an innocent injury. It arced out at Reeve’s midsection, a wave of the hand from the American keeping the bolt at bay like water breaking on a wall.

Reeve knew this was a bad idea immediately. The bolt of energy had been more than he ever had to handle before, owing to Caster’s very existence as a Servant. He needed to break away and make a hasty exit. Lifting his hand and clenching it to a fist, a lighting fixture creaked and dropped from the ceiling towards Richard and Irmgard, along with the scattering forms of countless passengers and passerby.


	9. Chapter 9

The engine of Gen’s motorcycle roared along the street, his jacket shut tight and a helmet covering his face against the wind that whipped around him. He didn’t want to think about anything to do with this Grail War right now. He had only done it because of Ichirou’s goading and smug attitude. The minute he finished the summoning with his father’s assistance and looked at the doddering old knight he had called forth, everything about it came into horrible, understandable focus. Lancer was a liability more than anything, given his ridiculous dedication to chivalry and clear honesty about who he was. Gen’s father seemed pleased, but then again that could have just been the fact that Gen agreed to it at all.

The sound of some sirens got Gen to snap out of his momentary annoyance and distraction, enough to notice what direction they were headed. There was no way of being sure the exact location but given that Father Kotomine had just arrived it seemed too much of a coincidence to be taken for granted. Gen started to turn and follow them when he heard what seemed to be the heavy clopping of horse hooves on the asphalt.

Natural curiosity overtook him, and he turned his head towards the sound. Moving fast enough to outpace even the cars on the road he could see a black horse charging in the direction of the airport, two passengers riding on it.

In the space of a moment he could just about feel it. Lancer came into being beside him, still dressed in armor and uncaring of who or what might see it.

“Master,” Lancer greeted him amidst the shouts of incredulity and disbelief. The public didn’t concern him a lick it seemed. “I feel you should be made aware that we are in the presence of at least one other Servant.”

“No shit.” Gen rolled his eyes. “The guy on the horse riding down the street kinda sticks out.”

“Not simply them,” Lancer continued, voice grave. “I can sense others in our vicinity. Faint, but they’re present.” Casting a worried glance around the skyline, he climbed onto the back of the motorcycle and placed a gauntleted hand on Gen’s shoulder. “With your approval, I shall ride with you for protection.”

“I don’t have much of a choice if there’s someone watching us. Fine, hop on.” Lancer slung his leg over the side and leaned his weight into Gen’s back. Despite the armor he wore, the weight seemed to hardly register to the bike, and it took off down the street again in pursuit of the black horse that had made its way down the street.

The steed wasn’t hard to keep track of, each striking hoof on the asphalt creating a shower of sparks, like striking flint. The roaring engine of Gen’s motorcycle weaved through traffic, cutting around slow moving cars that honked their displeasure at his reckless driving. Hardly his fault, he considered. Were they not seeing the horse pounding across the flat stretch of the street?

“Two of them!” Lancer shouted out. He was right, two riders were astride the horse, and Gen had a feeling he knew what was happening. The one on the back, a drab olive jacket fluttering behind him, was likely a Master. Which left the man standing in the stirrups to be the Servant.

“Think you can cut them off?”

“You need only speak it, Master!” Gen smirked.

“Okay then. Lancer, get to-“

“ **Not so fast there!** ” The words only registered with Gen once he had felt the sudden force of his bike decelerating, and before he could twist the handles to try and redirect his bodily momentum, he felt himself soaring into the air. Lancer didn’t require much time to react to this danger, and he pushed off the back of the bike to grab the mage around the waist like a sack of flour and tuck his feet beneath him. He landed on the street with a thud and a clatter of metal, setting Gen down before reaching into the ether and pulling an old, tarnished spear from nothing. It didn’t seem the sort of thing a knight would wield, no tassels or carvings across the blade. Lancer’s head shot side to side, searching for the assailant who had just made the attack.

“Show yourself, coward!” His voice cut through the honking and shouting of those who had seen the bike suddenly grind to a halt and deposit its driver into the air, only to be caught by some strange man in iron armor. The weapon was even more a shock, and drove several people shouting into the growing night crying for help. “Reveal your face and I shall make your punishment quick!”

“A tired old man and some punk? Absurd, I almost feel insulted.” A voice deep and powerful seemed to shout from around him, everywhere and nowhere. Lancer continued his dance in place, circling until he drew up the point of his weapon directed at a tall man in a sharply tailored suit. He was African, dark hair cut short and hands in his pockets. He seemed as casual as a man walking through the park. Lancer could see in his relaxed smile a wit that was ages old. His sparkling golden eyes held an intelligence that was more dangerous than words could say. “I suppose any good story needs some decent tension.” Pulling one hand from his pocket, the well-dressed gentleman tipped at the waist in a curt but sincere bow. Lancer slowly lowered his spear and followed suit. “For our confrontation, you may address me as Archer.”

“And I am Lancer.” This whole ordeal was practiced and simple for the knight to settle into. His code of chivalry was something he was almost hopelessly devoted to. One of his great limitations. “However, you have attempted to cause harm to my Lord. This requires retribution!”

“But of course. The gallant warrior needs to maintain his honor.” Archer nodded, running a hand over the short curls of his hair. Scratching the back of his neck there was no attempt to draw a weapon. “I am woefully outmatched here, however. You can see there is no honor to be won from such a fight.”

Lancer grit his teeth. The grip on his weapon tightened. Gen had recovered and pushed himself to his feet, tossing his helmet to the side. A fury like glowing coals shone in his eyes, and extending a hand a glow registered under a leather glove.

“Like I give a damn!” The leather on the glove incinerated, casting a wave of flame from the fingertips. Archer jumped back further on the sidewalk, against the side of a building. Panicked voices went up in a cry of alarm at the supernatural action, and the strange men standing out so brazenly. “Your Master’s gotta be a real confident shit to go attacking us in the open.”

“My Master is certainly not orthodox,” Archer responded, chuckling jovially. Sirens continued to grow louder as they drew closer. Police? Ambulance? Gen’s eyes flicked off Archer for a moment, and the man was already making his way down the sidewalk towards the source of the noise. “Will you follow, I wonder? Not exactly the chivalrous type yourself, I can tell!”

“Go to Hell!” Gen’s voice strained, and in a moment of rage he extended his middle finger. He felt like he was a badass, but that calm and collected laugh told him that Archer wasn’t intimidated. The mage grabbed his bike again, kickstarting it once more and gesturing to the backseat. “Lancer, get your ass on here. I’m gonna run that smug bastard over and make him tell me who his Master is.”

“This hardly seems an appropriate response-“

“Gen Tohsaka’s first rule of combat: Fuck appropriate.” The front wheel lifted off the ground for a second, momentum carrying forward as they started to chase down Archer and the unknown cause of the disturbance.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time Kai and Rider arrived at the scene, most of the civilians at the airport had evacuated outside, murmuring about what was happening inside and waiting expectantly for emergency services to arrive. They milled about like a churning sea, parting for the two on horseback with no idea their purpose. Their words were as indistinct as rolling waves to Kai, and he did his best not to pay any attention to their eyes as he swung off the saddle and onto the asphalt beneath. 

“You’re sure this is the place?” 

“Absolutely, Master. Something of a sixth sense for this sort of thing.” Rider chuckled and dismounted himself. “We’ve got a few combatants practically on top of us. Best to be careful.” 

“Easy for you to say.” Kai spoke under his breath, taking tentative steps forward through the crowd. Eventually the mass of bodies stopped as if an invisible line had been drawn, one no human was willing to cross back over. Kai stepped past this invisible threshold with Rider and made his way to the glass doors of the terminal. 

Inside was brightly, harshly lit after coming in from the city streets. Kai was suddenly glad he had shades to slip on. They were meant for hiding where his eyes were looking during a con job, but now they served a more functional purpose. Rider seemed to have no issues adjusting, the two taking in the sight in front of them. 

From outside the fallen lighting fixture was easy to make out. What wasn’t was the crumpled body face down beneath the twisted mass of aluminum and scattered glass tubing. On the tile floor dull with thousands of daily footprints spread a crimson pool of blood, inching its way towards the two as if to draw them in. A rolling stomach nearly threatened to spill its contents to join it. 

“Steady on, Master,” Rider advised, a hand pressed to the jacketed shoulder beside him. “There’s work to be done.” 

Kai gave a nod and swallowed thickly. He wasn’t sure where to start, and began to open his mouth to speak when Rider pulled his pistol and abruptly fired it off at one of the exposed legs of the body. Kai screamed in shock, the taste of gunpowder wafting into his open mouth as the cloud hung in the air. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” 

Rider raised a brow and gestured at the body. “See anything unusual?” 

Despite his anger and lingering nausea, Kai looked to the body again. Nothing, not a single twitch had been made. “It’s dead! This is a dead body, you successfully shot a dead body and it didn’t move!” 

“I didn’t shoot it.” Rider shook his head and pointed to the exposed limbs. “No bullet hole. Not even a spot in the ground if I’d missed. This is either meant to throw us off or set up an ambush.” As Rider spoke, Kai quickly pressed closer to the spirit at his side. 

“If this is an ambush then why hasn’t somebody attacked us yet?” 

“That’s what I’m wondering. Don’t know who this poor sod is meant to be, but it seems like it’s keeping civilians out and away from-“ He glanced at the far end of the terminal, where various gates for arrival and departure would lead to the tarmac. “I think I know where our fellow combatants are. Let’s see what there is to see, shall we?” Rider strode forward, making a dash for the gates as he hopped a barricade. 

From outside the terminal, Berserker’s eye caught the glow of the blinking red lights around them and the distant shine of the myriad buildings of the city. Her cyclopic focus was on Caster, his breathing heavy and mana encircling him with a shimmering barrier. She lunged with a scream of rage and pain, as if her body were currently withering away before her. She held no weapon, but the strike she made with her palm was enough to make Caster’s body push back towards Richard who was standing a few yards back out of uncertainty. 

Irmgard was watching as well, shocked at the strength of Berserker without any implement. Wasn’t she supposed to have something to fight with? Sword, spear, axe, anything at all? 

“We really should table this, madam!” Caster called out, both hands up, pressing back against Berserker’s fury. “We don’t know what happened to the third Servant after the lighting fixture came down!” 

Irmgard nodded and looked around in nervous anticipation. “I agree, but you must understand! I have no more control of her than this!” 

Caster was about to speak again when the sound of a gunshot from the airport drew his attention. Unperturbed by the noise, Berserker’s next swing shattered the barrier and sent him tumbling back. 

In a moment of panic Richard attempted to catch the spirit and ended up taking a fall alongside him. Berserker made a leap like a beast and landed on top of the men, her hands going for Caster’s throat. He could only grab at her wrists in panic, legs kicking out underneath them as she squeezed. Air was cut off for him, and were he anything less than a chosen Servant hhis life likely would have been cut short then and there on the tarmac. 

Fortune smiled on them as the clatter of hoofbeats on the surface drew her attention at last. She looked sidelong at the approaching men astride a black stallion, teeth grit as she lunged back and returned to Irmgard’s side, one arm held outstretched in defense of her Master. Relieved by the lack of weight on their bodies, Caster and Richard stood again, a triangle between them as the six looked amongst themselves. 

“Well, cheers to you all,” Rider greeted in a moment to break the silent tension. He tipped his hat to Caster and Richard, who nodded their heads in curt acknowledgement of the duo. To Irmgard and Berserker he bowed at the waist as best his position astride the horse would allow. “Seems a shame we interrupted your sport. Cost us an early elimination from the proceedings.” 

Irmgard sighed and looked over her Servant’s shoulder at the two men standing. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve no doubt it would be difficult to leave unnoticed after such an act.” 

“Fuyuki can be pretty crazy. You’d be surprised.” Kai spoke up, matter-of-factly. Grinning down at Irmgard his eyes sized her up from behind the shield of his sunglasses. “I mean, you’re really not from around here, are ya?” Irmgard shook her head no. “Figures. You too, specs?” Richard and Caster looked between themselves and repeated the gesture. “Well, and me without my guide book.” 

“This is highly unusual,” Caster interjected, Rider guffawing. 

“In what way? It’s a contest, not just bloodsport.” Rider thumbed his nose and looked around the landing strip. “And unless I miss my guess we’ve got a fourth member somewhere watching us for weakness. Better we keep ourselves alert so they don’t have that shot.” 

The three came to their agreement and turned themselves around, looking for any sign of Reeve and Assassin. As the lighting fixture had come down Richard had made an attempt to protect some individuals with what little ability he had managed to process with Caster’s assistance. It was hardly much really, and the more learned magic-user quickly picked up the slack. That however had allowed the pair to disappear into the airport, and with no further target to attack Berserker had entered a frenzy, dragging Caster out into the unoccupied, open air stretch of flat land they now stood in. 

Reeve and Assassin hadn’t gone far. The American sweat angrily as he quashed the urge to fish out a cigarette from his jacket, while the gray-haired Servant faded into shadow. “Remain still if you wish not to perish,” was all his stern and distinguished voice stated to him, and he had to trust in this. 

In truth, this was only partially due to the nature of the numbers game against them. While Assassin wasn’t entirely unsure of his skill in marksmanship against certain targets, and the knowledge of Irmgard’s poor control firmly tucked away, he was well aware of the next individual to approach, watching as Archer strolled through the rear of the airport, like a man down a red carpet, hands in his pockets and a wide smile on his face. 

“I see I’m not late after all. Fortune smiles on me again!” A deep belly laugh echoed out and his head twisted to check over his shoulder. “Unless I miss my guess, Lancer and his Master should be arriving shortly. That would leave us one party short.” 

The assembled crowd turned their attention to Archer, now up to seven. Nine with the known pair still at large. “Forgive me my intrusion, but I wanted to make sure nothing untoward happened before we were all here.” 

“You sound like you’re planning something,” Rider spoke up, arms crossed before he too laughed in response. Kai dismounted from the steed, precautionary measure as he realized that, for all the good cheer, Archer still wasn’t brandishing a weapon, a trait his life in alleys had trained him to recognize as a bad sign for a stranger. 

True to his word, Gen and Lancer were not delayed long in their arrival, the motorcycle pulled around despite fencing that should otherwise have restrained their advance. From the looks of things, this was likely the reason for continued agitation on Gen’s face, dismounting himself and standing alongside Lancer. 

“Archer, you’ve got ten seconds to tell me if your master is Ichirou Matou before I start turning that fancy suit into cigarette paper.” Sparks danced off his fingertips even as Lancer took a position at the ready. 

“M’lord, perhaps it is not the most prudent decision to focus so heavily-” 

“Lancer, shut up.” Gen didn’t even break his line of sight from Archer, whose golden eyes seemed to draw in the light from around him, intensifying the menace as he stared him down. 

“Impatient and arrogant. You must think you’re the hero of the story!” Archer tutted and shook his head. Despite all threats against him, he turned to the assemblage around him, finally pulling his hands free of his jacket and stretching his arms out wide. “Welcome one and all, and may I say a pleasure it is to be considered for this marvelous competition. I am, as you heard from the Master of Lancer, Archer for this competition. I see what I presume to be Caster, Rider, and Berserker as well.” 

The group watched and listened in confusion. His candor, his ease of attitude, all of it spoke to a horrible idea that he was simply not afraid of them. Still, the numbers game was too uneven. No party knew the other, or how they might react to a sudden assault. To Gen and Irmgard especially it would be a poor decision to attack, as the chance for collateral was too great. Church and Mage's Association both had their limits, and more than that they simply couldn’t risk anything with the Matou clan representative not present, out of concern of the third family making an opportune assault. 

“Assassin is not far from us, if the story has proceeded apace. That leaves us Saber then. Late as ever.” 

Caster coughed, clearing his throat and drawing attention to himself. “Archer, perhaps you could inform us what exactly this is about?” 

“I am here to make a simple statement. You have, all of you, already lost.” 

“And what is it that makes you say this?” 

“Well, it’s not something I like to brag about.” Archer adjusted the tie around his neck, shrugging softly. “It’s just that your secrets are mine. I own all stories...yours included.”


End file.
